


A Year Gone

by ThePandoricaWillOpen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friendlock, Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePandoricaWillOpen/pseuds/ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been mopping around his new flat. He's tried to forget about Sherlock but watching your best friend jump off a rooftop is a tough thing to forget. He's finally listening to his doctor's advice and ends up meeting Mary Morstan. But then, just as John is about to get serious with her, Sherlock re-appears and John doesn't know what to think. (Post-Reichenbach before Season Three)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this - and never finished it - before today's season 3 premier of Sherlock. I'll be taking a few hours a day to write a chapter for the next two weeks in celebration and admiration of Season Three. No spoilers. Not brit picked and not edited.

John awoke in the middle of the night, like he usually did, in a sweat. Memories of the war still haunted him, even though three years had passed. The bullets whizzing by his head, the threat of being ambushed at every turn and the possibility of dying at any moment tormented his dreams. Being shot at was one thing but having to relive the moment over and over again was just too much. Having to re-experience the moments as his comrades were shot at, blown up and then, as they lay dying on the ground, calling out for help… it was too much. But now…

Now his nightmares revolved around Sherlock jumping off the roof of St Bart’s. His long coat flowing behind him as he fell to the ground with and landed with a crash, and how John watched, unable to move. It tormented him: his inability to react, to convince Sherlock not to jump. There were so many things he had wanted to tell Sherlock and now couldn’t. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get the man’s final words out of his head.

 _“This phone call_ ,” Sherlock had said. “ _It’s… it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_ And then he spoke, but John didn’t realise that it would be the last time Sherlock would ever say his name. “ _Goodbye, John.”_

John knew Sherlock had been crying even from their brief – if strange – phone call. And John was crying because Sherlock Holmes was his best friend – his _only_ friend. He was a great man and _no one_ and _nothing_ will _ever_ convince him any different. He stood by whilst his best friend jumped off the roof, coat billowing behind him. John had stood, paralysed, so unlike someone who had lived through a war. But it was Sherlock, the man who knew everything about anyone the moment he laid eyes on them, not some bloke whose job it was to shoot people. They had been through so much and said so little. The latter bothered John even now as he sat up in bed, like he had done every night before meeting Sherlock, and waited for the sun to rise.

His breathing slowed once he sat up, his nightmare still present in the forefront of his mind but not as dominating as before. He could still see Sherlock’s coat, his curly hair flowing in the wind, his flailing arms and the thump as he landed on the cold, hard ground. Those images never left John, no matter how drunk he got. He was haunted by much more than the fall. There were many things that he had not been able to tell his flatmate, unspoken words just out of his reach, at the tip of his tongue, that were never said. Sherlock wasn’t one for sentiment, John knew, and would have dismissed his feelings immediately. Hell, he didn’t even know what he felt for the man. He thought any emotions would have changed by now. But to his surprise, whatever he felt hadn’t waned.

* * *

Sometimes he would come home from surgery, to his _new_ home because he refused to live in 221B without Sherlock, with a six-pint of milk he didn’t even remember buying. He told his therapist this once and regretted it immediately.

“Milk,” she’d said. “Why milk?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does milk symbolise?”

“I don’t know.”

“John,” she leaned forward, resting on her knees and said, “what was the last thing you asked of Sherlock before the whole M-“ she stopped, knowing how John flinched at the mention of the man who had driven Sherlock to that roof. “- _Situation_ happened?”

John had remained silent for a moment, thinking. Sherlock was never one to go shopping, not unless John threaten to steal his cadaver parts (or cigarettes) and hide them in places he couldn’t find them. John remembered their last sitting together, their last domestic moment together. He remembered asking Sherlock to buy milk because he had to work later than usual and the great detective had nothing to do. He remembered the roll of eyes he received and then coming home to find the milk had magically appeared in the fridge.

John looked up at his therapist and whispered hoarsely, “Milk.”

* * *

Everything was better now… kind of… sort of… in an I-feel-empty-and-alone way. It wasn’t like what he felt when he returned home from Afghanistan. This was worse because at least then he had a home to go back to. Now all he had was 221B Baker Street, a flat brimming with memories of a curly haired detective who gave him chills and nightmares. All he had was a drunkard of a sister who still asked about Sherlock every time she called. He had lingering stares from patients at his job or random strangers whilst in line at the market. He had a DI who would call him up and invite him to the pub half-heartedly. He had a monthly deposit in his bank account from the British Government. He had a landlady who visited him once a week.

But really, he had nothing… not anymore.

He had begun to use his cane once more, the pain in his leg returning just a week after the incident at Bart’s. Even if it was psychosomatic, it hurt like a bitch and the cane managed to relieve some of the pain. John knew what Sherlock would say if he saw him walking around like an old man with his cane for his imaginary wounded leg. He would say something smart-ass like John’s leg hurt because he would rather deal with a physical pain than an emotional one and then Sherlock would try to hide a smile as he looked at the doctor’s annoyed expression. He did that. Smiled whenever John got cross at him.

Sometimes, John thought Sherlock pissed him off on purpose, enjoying the way he could easily beat him in a verbal fight as well a physical one. Whenever John ignored him, Sherlock would always bait him by calling him stupid or ordinary or he would break into his laptop and read his emails as payback. At the time John would say it annoyed him but now, he missed the constant rows he had with the detective. He missed having to look up at the tall man and try to make him a bit more human. He missed the shared looks and the feeble insults they traded. He missed the man’s sharp eyes, his dry humour, and the way his bowed lips curled up in amusement. He missed Sherlock.

* * *

 

His therapist had suggested, (after the whole milk discussion which took three whole sessions) that he go out once a week and try to be his old self. He rolled his eyes at the idea, and yet somehow he found himself in front of a deli a block or so from his new place. He had passed by every day after work; the steamy aroma would hit his nostrils as he walked by, a six-pint of milk clutched in his hand. John stepped forward, pushing open the door with his left hand and tumbling inside as his foot slid on the slippery floor. All eyes turned to him, but he was used to that. John looked straight ahead, his body stiff, and walked towards the furthest table he could find. He sat.

John took the menu from the table top and flipped through it. As he began to turn the paper over to the other side, someone stepped in front of his table. John looked up and his eyes landed on a blond woman who had large, emerald eyes. She seemed concerned, looking at him from top to bottom, her eyes lingering on his ugly old man cane, before turning back to him.

“Are you alright? The step always trips new customers. We should probably put a sign up but I don’t think management will like that. They don’t like unnecessary rubbish to well, clutter the place. Are you okay?” Her hands moved along with her speech making very interesting gestures as she babbled. Once she’d stopped talking, John was left looking like a creeper staring at her hands.

He coughed and nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks. Yeah, that step _is_ a hazard. You should advice the management to invest in a sign or else they’ll be paying a fine when someone gets hurt.”

“Are you a copper?” she asked. “Not that that’s bad or anything! Just that if you are and management finds out I just told you that they didn’t want to invest in a sign… well, I would loose my job and –“

“I’m not a copper,” John interrupted with a smile. “Relax.”

“Good,” she replied before doing a double take. “Not that being a policeman is bad or anything. Just that-“ she stopped herself, took a deep breath and said, “It’s my first day and you’re my first customer and I’m really nervous and when I’m nervous I talk. I’m sorry.”

John chuckled. “No worries. First day jitters and all that.” She reminded him of Molly in a way. He’d always thought that Molly was the only one to get tongue-tied whilst speaking. But here was yet another beautiful woman who did just the same. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Mary. Mary Morstan. Nice to meet you, John,” she said, clutching the menu to her chest with a smile. “Are you ready to order, John?”

* * *

 


	2. First Date, A Nightmare and Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a story, what more could a girl want?

John developed a routine. After work he would head to the deli where Mary worked, sit in her section and talk a bit. They spoke about everything and nothing. She told him why she came to London and her father’s military past whilst he recounted his own time in the army and his return to London. The first weekend of this routine, he took her out to see the London sites. She seemingly enjoyed herself judging by the smile she had on her face as they walked home.

On the way back to his own flat, John would sometimes feel eyes on him. Mycroft most likely; the man made a monthly contribution to the John Watson charity fund thus John wasn’t about to complain about being spied on. As long as he kept his distance and didn’t interfere in his affairs, Mycroft could – and most likely _would_ – do as he wished.

A month after meeting, John finally asked her out on a date. By his count it would be their tenth date but by her count it would be their first ‘official’ date. He was nervous; he wasn’t about to deny that. It had been a long time since he’d gone on a proper date with a woman he actually liked.

 _At least I don’t have to worry about Sherlock…_ he thought sadly. _He wouldn’t like Mary; he never liked any of them. They didn’t much care for him either. It was always a tug of way between Sherlock and my girlfriends. And I always ended up alone… I always chose Sherlock over them. But not this time… why should I? He’s gone and I don’t want to be alone._

He decided to take her to his favourite restaurant, the little Italian place that Sherlock had taken him to on their first day together. He was greeted Billy, who led them to the same seat _they_ had sat in three years ago, and handed them a menu. For a moment John remembered having come into the place as they waited for a murderer to appear in 22 Northumberland Street.

“John! My boy!” boomed restaurant’s owner as he came trotting from the kitchen.

“Angelo.” John stood up, his leg giving him a slight pain as he did so, and hugged the man as he approached.

When they separated, Angelo asked, “How have you been? I heard about Sherlock. What a shame, he was a brilliant young man. Between me and you, I don’t believe a word they say.”

“I’ve been fine,” John answered. He looked down at his hands as he added, “I’m glad someone else doesn’t believe that rubbish.”

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes,” Angelo assured him. He turned to Mary. “I see you are in the middle of a date.” He winked at John. “I’ll get you a candle.”

“No!” John yelled, startling Angelo, Mary and most of the other customers. “No candles… please.”

Angelo stared at him for a moment before nodding slowly and looking away. “I will make the food myself. Billy! Take their orders!” He turned to John, lowering his voice as he spoke. “You are _always_ welcome here, John.”

* * *

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” Mary asked as their food arrived. John nearly chocked on his own spit. She smiled at him and asked again, “Who’s Sherlock Holmes? Angelo mentioned him and you seemed quite sad when he did. He must be important.”

John breathing slowed down in that moment. He looked at Mary, her green eyes staring at him waiting for an answer, which he wasn’t ready to give. What was he supposed to say? That Sherlock was this brilliantly mad detective who offed himself after facing his archenemy? That Sherlock was his best friend and that he still stayed up at night hoping that he would walk into his flat and declare, “ _John, I’m fine. It was all a ruse. I’m fine_.” Or perhaps that he had reoccurring nightmares of the man’s coat billowing in the wind, his curly head crashing horribly against the concrete floor and the blood rushing from his corpse.

No. John wasn’t ready to answer that question. He could barely even hear of the man without looking around to see if he’d come back to life somehow. So John took a deep breath and said softly, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

How he was able to keep himself composed the rest of the night, he will never know.

* * *

_The blood gushed out of a wound in his torso, the blood flowing slowly out in streams and running down the width of his body and onto the ground. Feeling completely drained of strength as he watched the blood drip down; John's knees faltered and he fell to the ground. He crawled to the body, his hands touching the pool of blood that began to accumulate around it, and with a trembling hand, he reached for the shoulder. He had fallen faced down and, John imagined that from far away, he appeared to be resting comfortably on the cold, hard ground. John tugged the body to bring it closer, cringing as the lifeless head rolled and landed in the small puddle of blood. His dark brown blood-soaked curls stuck to his face and somehow, that little detail broke John._

_"N-No... It can't be..." he whispered horrified. He'd known from the moment he'd saw the body, who it was, but the reality of coming face to face with him brought this sick truth to light. The person laying in front of him, slowly bleeding to death, was... "Sherlock? But you're already dead..."_

_The body twitched, convulsed as if a current of electricity was running through it. His eyes snapped open, blinking as they looked around and, finally settling on John's face, they widened. There was twinkle of happiness and comfort within them but also a hint of deep sorrow._

_"N-Nice to se you ... again... John." His light grey eyes never looked away as he spoke in choked sobs from the immense pain he was suffering._

_John's vision blurred as he sat up and the silence that was disrupted only by the sound of his heavy breathing rang in his head like a gong._ His _voice was all too familiar; chills ran down John's body like it had when they'd first met. There were no words he could say, so he sat there in shock and wondered if his eyes were deceiving him._

 _"This isn't real," he said more to himself than to_ him _. "Y-y-your dead. I saw you die."_

 _He looked at John as If he'd insulted him, his eyes flashing with a hurt he'd only seen once before._ He _tried to sit up before speaking but only ended up falling back to the pavement with a sickening crash. John's shaking hand reached out for_ his _hand, feeling the smooth skin that finally assured him that this was in fact Sherlock. He cradled it between both his hands and raised them to his face, planting a small kiss on Sherlock's knuckles. His pale body lay on the bloody pavement, his eyes staring at the dark sky above._

_"You are not happy to see me," the man mused. "Not happy at all, I see."_

_"You're not real, you're dead," John insisted. "I saw you die."_

_"No." He snapped his eyes to John's and shook his head with difficulty. "You only saw me fall, John."_

_"What the bloody hell do you mean?" he snapped, letting Sherlock's hand fall from his grip and landing on his chest harshly._

_"You don't remember, do you?" He laughed half-heartedly, his head shaking slightly in disbelief. "You did this to me, John." The doctor blinked, unsure he'd heard him correctly. "You did this to me." His voice wasn't harsh or cold as it repeated his words. In fact, he sounded sad and on the verge of tears. Before John could utter a word, he raise his voice and yelled, "Why don't you remember?!"_

_John got up, his legs and head protesting at the sudden movement. He balanced himself on the wall adjacent to him, one he hadn't noticed before, and shook his head. "I-I didn't- No!"_

_Glancing back at the man, he gave John a mischievous smile. His mouth instantly flooded with blood that trailed down his chin and to the floor. Before he even realised it, Sherlock was standing in front of John, the blood spilling from his lips down onto his clothes. His hands were around John's neck the next moments, his grip tightening around his throat before he knew what was happening._

_"N-no!" he managed to choke out. "Sherlock!"_

_"It is your fault. It is all_ your _fault! I'm dead because of_ you _!"_

* * *

That night, John had another nightmare - a nightmare to trump all of his others by far. As soon as morning hit, he called in sick and rushed to his therapist's office. Seeing how distressed he was, Doctor Ella Thompson cancelled her morning appointments and led John into her office. She had never seen him so distraught, not even after returning to their sessions after the suicide of his best friend. She sat him down on the sofa by the window, his eyes immediately drawn to the outside. Sitting in front of him, she put away her pad and waited. John had come to her, willingly. It was John who had to start talking. Ten minutes later, he did just that.

"I- I had a nightmare," he whispered softly. "It was w-wrong …" he stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes brimming with tears. He wiped them away, turning away from her. He took another deep breath and continued. "It was about Sherlock. It was worst than all the rest. I –"

When he broke into tears, something she never thought she'd see the soldier do, she handed him a tissue. "John. Tell me about your dream."

"I-No," he replied between sobs. "I-I can't."

She didn't pressure him, knowing that this was treacherous ground. She asked him if he wanted any tea, and when he answered yes, she got up to ring her assistant. When the tea arrived, John took his cup, cradled it between his hands and looked out the window silently. She waited, sipping her tea and watching him. His body was tense, the veins on his neck jutting out slightly as he drank from his cup. His hands were pale from the death grip and knuckles white from the pressure. The doctor was about to suggest he go home to rest when he spoke up, putting his cup down and sighing deeply.

"Mary and I went on a date last night," he told her. "We went to the little Italian Place on Northumberland Street. I just took her there, without a second thought. We even took the same route Sherlock and I took the first night I moved in. By the time we were seated, I realised where I'd brought her. The whole place reminded me… it reminded me of Sherlock. I-" John stopped and turned away, his cane hand flexing as he tried to keep himself calm. "The, umm, the restaurant owner, Angelo, was a friend of his and he came over to … He came over to- to- I don't know- he said he was sorry about Sherlock and that he was brilliant but everyone who knew Sherlock knows just how brilliant he was so he didn't have to say that but he did and it reminded me of my first impression of him. I thought he was brilliant – brilliant and mad.

"Anyway, Mary and I ate silently throughout the date. She tried to ask me about him but I didn't say anything. How could I? I- what do I say? That he was brilliant, he was amazing and a nut who would rather d-" John blinked, stopping himself. He rubbed his face, wiping away any trace of tears from his eyes.

Doctor Thompson looked on as her patient used the breathing exercises she had suggested a few weeks back. When he didn't continue, she prompted softly, "What happened after your date with Mary?"

There was a moment of silence before John answered. "I dropped her off. I didn't even look her in the eye when I did and I went home."

"And then?"

John licked his lips, looking at the floor, as he replied, "Nothing."

"You wouldn't have come here if it was 'nothing', John."

"No, I wouldn't have."

Doctor Thompson waited.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come," John muttered, getting up. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have-"

"Sit down, John. Talk to me," she commanded. "This is bothering you, it bothered you enough to make you skip work and come see me. Now, I wouldn't have cancelled my entire day for you if I didn't want to be here for you."

"The moment my head hit the pillow I was out like a light," John began, sitting down with a long deep sigh. "The date had gone horribly, my knee ached worst than ever and even my shoulder started to hurt again. The whole night was chaos. My head was throbbing and Angelo's words replayed in my head."

"What happened when you got home?"

John breathed in and out slowly, his hands forming fists at his sides. He hide them, knowing full well what Ella would say, and closed his eyes. He couldn't even formulate the words in his head, let alone say them out loud.

"I woke up screaming his name," John said instead.

"And you've never had this sort of dream before?" Doctor Thompson asked, letting the subject go for now. She could see how tensely John held his body and when John was this tense it meant he didn't want to talk about something. She wasn't about to pressure him into telling her his dream. He would do that on his own time.

"One where he blames me for his death? No." John shook his head, scolding himself for letting a small detail of the dream slip by. "I don't usually dream of – of him other than when he... fell."

"Do you blame yourself for Sherlock's death, John?"

"What?" John snapped. "Of course not! _He_ jumped, not me. _He_ was the one who left, not me."

"You are still, obviously, angry at him for leaving you. Why do you think that is?" John blinked, not sure how to answer that. He was angry, yes but he wasn't sure why. Before he could answer, Doctor Thompson continued, "Do you think this has anything to do with your date?"

"H-how does Sherlock coming to me in a dream relate to my date with Mary?" John asked, flabbergasted. "They have nothing to do with each other, totally different people with nothing in common-"

"You," she interrupted. "They have _you_ in common."

"I-I'm no one." John said with a weak laugh. "I'm absolutely no one."

"Sherlock would disagree I'm sure."

"You have _no_ idea what he thought!" John snapped. "No idea!"

"John," Doctor Thompson said, leaning forward in her chair. "You can't honestly believe you are no one. Sherlock thought you the most important person in his life at the time of his death. Else he wouldn't have called you. He wouldn't have bared himself raw for you right before committing suicide." She leaned back. "While you may not see yourself as special, one thing I do know is that Sherlock thought you were. But then again, I didn't know him, did I?"

* * *

John left the therapist's office two hours later and headed straight for the deli where Mary worked. He sat in her section like he normally did and waited. When Mary came to take his order, John smiled weakly at her. She looked beautiful today. Her blonde hair tied elegantly in a series of braids that made her look like a fabled queen. Her blue eyes shone behind her bangs, which she pushed aside with a long delicate finger before muttering a 'hello, John'.

"I – I want to apologise," he told her, looking down at the table. "What happened last night was – I wasn't feeling – what I'm trying to say is that I want to tell you about Sherlock."

Mary sat down heavily on the opposite seat. She blinked, her hand tugging at one of the braids in her hair. John had decided to tell her about Sherlock – the truth about him and not the rubbish they had printed in the media. He was sure Mary had looked Sherlock up; he would have upon hearing such a strange name. He _did_ look him up when they'd first met. His website was still online as was the link to John's blog. But John wanted her to know the truth.

"No," she said after a long pause. "Well, at least not now. Tonight. Come by my place and we can talk. I can make dinner."

"That would be great." John nodded, a thin smile appearing on his lips. He would rather have privacy when speaking of the man anyway. If there were any chance of breaking down and sobbing he would rather just have Mary witness it and not the entire deli. Mary took his order, bringing it to him a few minutes later. He ate in silence, thinking about what he was going to say to her later tonight.

* * *

John arrived at Mary's at seven. He was dressed in his favourite jumper, the one that Sherlock hated the most, and black pants. It was unusually cold outside for this time of the year and John felt sure that, should he stay outside Mary's home any longer, he would catch a cold. He was nervous; there was no denying that. But if there was something he took from his nearly three hour long session, apart from Ella being grumpy that early in the morning, was that this feeling was natural and he should let himself feel once in a while. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Before he could change his mind, John raised his hand to the door and knocked. He took a step back, looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly 7:30 PM and shook his head. He was late. The door opened, letting out a wave of hot smells that enveloped John. He smiled as Mary stepped to the side to let him inside, her hand gently touching his back as he entered her home.

"I was half-expecting you to cancel," Mary told him as she closed the door. She walked past him, leading him to the dining room where the table was laid out like at a fancy restaurant. There were no candles to be seen but the light was cast down and created a warm glow around the beautifully set table. She motioned with her hand for him to sit down. "I'll bring us a cuppa."

She went to the kitchen, pushing through swinging double doors and leaving the room. John had never been inside Mary's home before, at least not anywhere past the front door. It was modest with cream coloured walls, large windows on most walls covered by flowery drapes. The furniture was a dark mahogany coloured consisting of a large table, a few bookshelves that were over flowing with books, some chairs, a desk in the far corner of the living room and a few side tables holding lamps, pictures or plants. John smiled, he had pictured Mary's flat to be more modern but he couldn't spot a computer, phone or television anywhere.

He jumped slightly when a cup was placed in front of him. Smiling sheepishly, he thanked Mary and took a sip. "This is great."

"Thanks," she replied, taking a sip of her own. "You said earlier you wanted to talk about your friend."

John stilled, his hand stopping in mind air and almost spilling the tea on himself. He blinked a few times, setting the cup down before he could injure himself and coughed. He licked his lips, looking away from Mary and to the floor, unsure how to say anything with her unwavering eyes looking at him so openly. She trusted him, as much as Sherlock had trusted him, in about as short of a time. It was scary how much people trusted him. If he were an evil man, he would use that to his advantage. However, John wasn't cruel. He could barely watch an animal cruelty advert on TV without shedding a tear.

He had promised himself to tell Mary the truth, or at least his side of the story and let her make her own conclusions. Sherlock had said to tell everyone what a fraud he was but John had been raised to be an honest man. He didn't believe Sherlock to be a fraud, no matter how much the detective insisted. He only hoped Sherlock had been listening when he'd said that. If Mary were the woman John thought her to be, her conclusions would be nothing like the media and various people who decided it was their business to tell John what a disgusting human being he had for a friend.

Not knowing where to start, John cleared his throat and said, "Shall we eat first? I don't want this to ruin our appetites, not with the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen."

"Of course," Mary said with a small smile.

* * *

After dinner, they sat in the living room silently. John had yet to come up with the suitable words to use to describe his relationship with Sherlock, let alone what had happened the last week of... he couldn't even think about it without imagining Sherlock's head hitting the concrete and that was the last thing he wanted to be thinking off. In his gut, he knew that if this relationship were to last, Mary had to know the truth. The fear of her knowing, however, and drawing the same ignorant conclusions the rest of the world seemed to have, made it impossible for him to even begin this conversation. He rolled his eyes and smiled, he had to do this if not for himself, then for Sherlock.

He looked at Mary, her kind features and the kind words she'd offered him the first time they'd met. If she couldn't see the _truth_ , then how was he to convince the rest of the world that Sherlock Holmes was no fake? If the mad detective were here, he would have already deduced something that gave him the answer to the multitude of questions. But he wasn't here. John was alone. He had to speak in order to get answer, not look at someone's face and deduce in a matter of seconds.

"Sherlock and I, we were flatmates," John began, not quite looking at Mary. "I was introduced to him by a mutual friend of ours, Mike, - well, he was my friend from Uni and Sherlock's colleague. Apart from me, I don't think Sherlock had many friends really. And I'm not just saying that. He was an arrogant, egotistical sod who would tell you every bit of your life by simply looking at you. He was brilliant but shy, in his own way. Most people were scared away by his massive intellect."

"But you weren't?" Mary asked quietly.

John shook his head and chuckled. "Oddly enough, those were the things that I admired the most." He smiled fondly, remembering going home that night and feeling rejuvenated. "Anyway, I'd just come back from the war and had this little flat the army had put me in, very small. I'd always been a Londoner and when Mike and I were talking, I mentioned interest in moving closer to the city. He said I'd been the second person that day to say that to him. Obviously, I got curious..."

John drifted off, lost in his memories. It had been a while since he'd truly pictured Sherlock while he was still alive. He couldn't get the image of dead Sherlock out and keep the many fond memories he did have. Like, running around the streets of London in hopes of catching up to a cab that didn't contain a killer passenger but a killer cabbie. He'd lost his limp that night and he owed it all to Sherlock Holmes. But those memories were slowly being replaced by a figure falling from the roof of Bart's and crashing horribly against the cement floor.

 _Not cement_ , Sherlock would say in his mind, _concrete_. _Cement is an ingredient of concrete, John._

"What was he like?" Mary prompted. "Would I have liked him?"

"Oh, God no!" John exclaimed. "He would probably deduce your entire life by looking at your hands or some invisible dust particle that could only be found in the deli or something. He didn't like many people, most he tolerated at best." He shook his head. "It's what he did. He pushed people away – kept them at arms length – by deducing them and irritating them until they went away."

"But not you..." Mary said. No, not me, John thought looking up at Mary. So far she was taking this all rather well, with a faint – if sad – smile on her face. This was going better than expected but then again it was only the beginning.

"I just saw a brilliant misunderstood man," John said. "I guess the doctor in me wanted to help him. He ended up helping me, though." He pointed to his leg. "When I got back from the war, I had this terrible limp, had to use a cane and everything. One evening with Sherlock and it was gone. His brother said I got off on the excitement of a case, just like Sherlock. He was probably right. I've got my limp back now that he's... now that Sherlock's gone."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did he... jump?"

"Honestly?" John asked. Mary nodded. "I don't know. There was this guy named Jim Moriarty. He, well I think he had this thing for Sherlock. They were the same, you see. Both brilliant men but Sherlock was good, whilst Moriarty was evil. Opposite sides in an invisible war that Moriarty created. He wanted Sherlock at his side, but Sherlock refused. I think, in the end, on that rooftop, something happened and it made Sherlock think that – what he did – was the only way out."

There was a pause. John looked away and closed his eyes, trying his best to keep from making a fool out of himself. Mary would understand if he'd cried, Sherlock was his best friend and this was a hard thing to talk about. He had told himself not to cry, for Sherlock's sake more than his own. The man didn't like dramatics, even if he was a drama queen on all on his own. He wouldn't approve of the tears that John felt pool behind his closed eyes. He breathed in deeply and opened his eyes.

"He'd sent me on a wild goose chase back to our flat, trying to keep me out of harms way, I guess. When I made my way back to Bart's, he called me – already on the edge of the rooftop." He closed his eyes, the memory of looking up and seeing Sherlock so high up, dangerously close to the edge, was too much. He took an unsteady breath and continued, "He tried to convince me that he was a fraud, but I knew better. I was with him nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for two years – I know that man better than I know myself. He would never commit crimes or have crimes committed only to solve them himself. He hated glory, he hated the press and all the attention they gave him. Hell, he hated people in general so why would he go out of his way to get their attention?"

"It was your blog that made him famous, didn't it?"

"Yeah and I regret ever even starting it. Maybe, he would still be here, if I hadn't. It was for therapy, you see. Once I met Sherlock, I stopped going so I should have stopped the blog. But my life was so much more interesting now. I finally had something to share." Another deep breathe. "The case that propelled him to celebrity was the recovery of the painting _Reichenbach Falls_. That's when the whole disaster started. Moriarty broke into three of the most impregnable places London has and got himself caught. You probably read about it in the papers? What with it being called the crime of the century."

"Yeah," Mary replied. "He got away with it, did he?"

John nodded. "He had this code thing that could reprogram computers or something and he used it to reinvent himself. He called himself Richard Brooke. I finally get the joke."

"He killed himself too, didn't he?"

"On the same rooftop, minutes before Sherlock jumped, yeah."

"And you saw Sherlock jump? You saw him die?"

"Uh, y-yeah, I did." John gulped, trying to dissolve the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "He was my best friend, Mary. I can't erase him from my mind, I won't."

"And I'll never ask you too."

John let out a shaky breath. Perhaps Mary was the _one._


	3. Longest Day Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is just one of those days for John Watson

The next two days were the longest, most tiring days John had been through in a long time. Waking up in that first morning was hard enough but waking up on the second one, knowing that once at work he would be tethered to a room whilst sick people came in and out with colds, was overwhelming. It was nine o’clock in the morning and already he felt tired. But he was a doctor and so it was his duty to help the sick – even if all they had to do to not get sick was put on a jumper once in a while. The cold weather and strong winds were not unnatural for this time of the year but the up and down temperatures were. _It’s global warming_ , he thought, _it wants to make my life hell today._

He headed to work, sending Mary a quick text telling her he was probably not going to be stopping by the deli tonight. The sights and sounds of London, the people walking by with things on their minds and places to be, it was beautiful - but lonely. Not one of the pedestrians he passed on the street will be able to recall what he looked like if asked. Not one will be able to tell what he ate this morning, where he was going or how he was feeling. Not a single one of them cared. They were too worried about their own lives or too enthralled by the mobiles in their hands to look up. The world was too busy carrying on with its everyday lives to care about a lowly doctor on his way to work.

It all came down to not one of them was Sherlock. That was what he was trying to reason with himself without actually saying the words. No one he passed on the street was anywhere near the calibre as the detective, no one could compare. Try as he might, John could not stop himself from sounding like a broken record. Sherlock had been everything to him and now he was gone and John was left on his own accord, broken and lost. He had lost purpose. Work was about getting money, not about helping people. The adrenaline that once coursed through his veins had long since dried up, sucked up along the blood on the cement ground. 

Doctor Thompson would say - were she able to read his mind because John wasn’t about to tell her he thought about his recently deceased friend often - he yearned for the excitement and adventure that Sherlock provided. She would say that thinking about Sherlock, talking about him as if he was still alive was bad. And maybe it was. But he was coping. He was moving on, finally. She would be right in one thing though: he did miss Sherlock. Anyone with eyes could tell how much he missed him.

It didn’t matter, however. He had a job to do, whether he was in it for the adventure or the money, he still had people to help. All he had to think about right now was his patients. Not Sherlock and certainly not about being lonely while among a throng of sickly people. He had to concentrate. Right. Okay.

And that train of thought lasted exactly twenty minutes, the time it took him to get to work. He was at the corner, a homeless hunched over man bumping into him as he turned, when he saw the line of people waiting outside the clinic. He sighed, slowly down his pace, trying to delay the inevitable. He looked at his watch. It read 10 o’clock and already he had lost all motivation to go to work. But he had to. There was no one coming to his rescue, no one racing to take him away on an adventure filled with chasing criminals down dark alleys or lost treasures. No one to call out for him when boredom struck or throw tantrums when criminals were quiet – just Doctor John Hamish Watson heading to work like any other normal boring day. No one but a drunk homeless man bumping him from behind, making a circle around him and sniffing him before huffing and leaving. Not even the homeless wanted him.

“Shit,” John mumbled to himself. “This is going to be a long day.”

* * *

John's day ended up worst that he had ever expected. Not only were there a flu epidemic but the attendees of an entire convention got food poisoning. His surgery was the lucky clinic to get the load of them. Sick patients riddled the halls, sneezing and talking amongst themselves. Gossiping about the incompetent doctors and how long they'd been waiting. John's first patient had had the flu and, due to ethical reasons, refused to use tissues. She was leaking from her nose - yes, leaking - and still refused to use paper towels.

"What about a handkerchief?" He has asked, standing a few feet away, trying to stay away from her splatter region. He held the woman’s chart in his hands, trying desperately not to use it as a shield every time she sneezed. It was bad enough she didn’t wipe her nose but not covering her mouth as she sneezed or coughed was just too unsanitary.

"Do you know how much water I would have to use to wash it?" She snapped and then begun a lecture on water uses and the effects the human population has had on the natural water which lead to a lecture on the environment. In the end, John felt sure that, should he ever decide to go back to Uni and study the environment, he would be set.

His second patient was ten minutes late for a fifteen-minute appointment. He didn’t mind: she was elderly and could barely walk and was, thankfully, a very sweet woman. He didn’t even know how she made it across the street without getting run over. He doubted drivers slowed down and waited long enough for her to cross at her natural pace. Hell, sometimes he would get into rows with drivers as he tried to walk, his leg in pain and cane completely useless. He missed being able to walk by himself - not needing support from the ugly thing. Sherlock had taken that from him, however, amongst other things like trust. He shook his head, trying to read his patients chart as she stared at him.

"Are you alright, dearie?" She asked, her voice raspy. She looked at him, head tilted, as if looking into his soul with her dark eyes. He looked away, focusing his attention on her chart. "You look distracted."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He put her file down and smiled thinly. She watched him intently, her grey eyes peering into his like someone else he once knew. He shook the thought and replied, "Long day."

"It's noon," she pointed out with a smile. She waved a hand at him, one thin and wrinkly finger shaking in his direction, and said, "I get it. I know that look. You're in pain."

"I have a bad leg but-"

"Not _that_ kind of pain, son." She reached out to him, her wrinkly hand very soft on top of his. "Emotional pain."

John didn’t say anything; he didn’t have time to before the door opened a moment later revealing a very pale Sarah. She looked over her shoulder, back at the waiting area, and then at John and his patient. Sarah smiled nervously, her hands pale as she gripped the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, John, but I – there is a ... man looking for you. He insists on talking with you.”

John apologised to his patient, receiving a small smile in return, before following Sarah out of the room and into the waiting area. Where once was a sea full of dark suits bending over a bin as they threw up, now stood a raggedy clothes, shaggy haired man, hands outstretched and eyes closed, a whimsical smile on his face. He briefly wondered if this man, like many homeless people, belonged to Sherlock’s elusive Homeless Network. There was a time when Sherlock would send a few of his spies out and direct them to the clinic to deliver their messages to John who would then, very angrily, direct them to the detective who had been too busy in his mind palace to get up and answer the phone. But that was a long time ago, or at least it felt like it. What possible message could he bring to John anyway?

He turned to Sarah, hoping she would explain but she shrugged, looking back at the man, and said, “He came in screaming for you. Asked to see you as soon as possible and then took three steps back and just stood there. Scared off a few people too.”

“Why me?”

“I-I thought he might be, you know, one of ... one of his connections? Maybe he doesn’t know what happened?” She shrugged again, looking at the man like he was an insect. _How have I not seen this look before_ , he wondered, _the looks of disgust on her face as she looks at the probably delirious man?_ “Either way,” she continued, “he’s your responsibility now.”

She walked away before he could protest, leaving him, the man and a room full of sick corporate men to stare at one another. He broke the silence, taking a step towards the raggedy stranger. The man looked familiar somehow; perhaps he was one of Sherlock’s contacts?

“I’m Doctor John Watson. I understand you were looking for me?” The man nodded but said nothing, dark eyes unblinking as he stared at John. He repressed a shiver and asked, “How can I help you?”

“You’re not John Watson,” the man gruffly replied shaking his head. “Not the John Watson I knew. And I knew him well... too well, much too well.”

John pursed his lips for a second, eyes narrowing as he tried to recognise the man. He couldn’t place him at all. He looked carefully, the way Sherlock had taught him and saw nothing but a scruffy man with long hair and ripped clothes, a mouldy smell coming from where he stood, nothing recognisable. “Excuse me? Do I – Do I know you?”

“You did ... once,” the man stated looking away from John. He walked away without another word, dismissing himself. John looked at the man as he left, confused. Before the man left the office, he turned once more and said, “I hope the next time we see each other, you are my John once more.”

* * *

The rest of the day the man’s final words plagued John’s mind. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over again trying to find a different solution to the same ending. What if he’d told the man to follow him for a check up? He could have been delirious or a danger to those around him. What if Sherlock had sent him a message and this man had just remembered it? He continually shook his head at his impossible thoughts, whisking them away with a sigh as he rubbed his eyes with his palms. He was tired, that was all, tired and alone.

He briefly considered calling Doctor Thompson and asking her opinion on the man, perhaps between the two of them they could finally push the words out of his mind and John could finally concentrate on the paperwork that had been lying on his desk for two hours now. He looked down at it now, the typed words blurred together unintelligently. He chewed on his lower lip and pushed the pages away, putting his arms on his desk and deciding right then and there to take a nap. That nap ended up lasting only a second, his intercom buzzing the moment his eyes closed.

“Doctor Watson?” The not-so soft-spoken secretary said over the speaker. “Your three o’clock is waiting for you in room two.”

“Yeah, thanks,” John replied. He stretched, waiting for the pop of his back and ache in his leg to catch up to the rest of the aches and pains in his body. The ache, ever present and alive, was the only thing keeping him going. Mary might be making life a bit less mundane but the pain, the constant reminder of his past, kept him grounded. “I’ll just… go, then,” he said to himself, reaching for his cane with distaste. _God, I hate that thing._

His patient turned out to be the breaking point. A grumpy middle aged man who insisted he was sick (“ _on the verge of dying_ ”) and needed a doctor’s note to excuse him from work for a few weeks. John had tried his best not to scoff at the man as he told his elaborate tale, something to do with a nest of killer bees ( _“They were huge! Hungry for a kill! Thank goodness I got away!”)_ and a bear ( _“Giant! As big as Big Ben!”)_ scratching the side of his arm (“ _the scratch was gone the next night!”)_.

The man insisted on a full body scan, a toxicology work up and all the tests they had available to find out what was wrong with him. John grinded his teeth, waiting for the man to finish listing what tests he wanted, hands on his lap with his pad and pen on the table next to him. The man noticed he wasn’t writing anything down and leaned back on his chair, eyebrow pulled up like an owl.

“Well ain’t ya gonna write anything down?” he asked sounding a bit angry.

“Frankly, Mr Wells,” John began in his most professional voice, “I don’t see a reason to do so. You say bees attacked you, yet you have no welts or bruises or even pictures to prove it. You say a bear scratched the entirety of your arm, that blood was oozing everywhere from said scratch and you felt faint at just looking at it all and yet there is no scratch on you. Not one indication that you have ever had such scratch along your arm in your life. What am I supposed to make of that?”

“You are supposed to do what I say!” Well yelled. “You work for me!”

“I may work for a surgery where you happen to go to, but I do not work for you,” John replied. “There is nothing I can offer you for your trouble of having to walk all but two blocks in order to reach me.” John waited but Wells was still, his eyes slits among his bulging cheeks. He stood, gathering his things under the scrutiny of Wells’ stare, walked to the door and said, “Ta.”

* * *

As expected the rather large and possible mad man had complained to Sarah once John left the examination room. John had been on the verge of sleep when his door slammed open, startling him out of sleep. He yelped, blinking warily as Sarah approached him.

“What happened with Mr Wells?” She asked, her tone saying she already knew but wanted to hear it from John nonetheless. “Huh?”

“He wanted a get out of work card,” John summarised. “I didn’t give him one. He’s a nutter, coming in here with a big story about bees and a bear and an invisible scar the length of big ben. Rubbish.”

“It’s true,” Sarah said, putting her hands on the back of the chair in front of John’s desk and leaning forward. “As far as you’re concern, everything the patient says is gospel.”

With that she walked away, leaving John to stare at her retreating form and then at the door with shock. What happened to the overly nice, friendly and sweet woman he’d met two years ago? When had this cold woman replaced her? In retrospect, he himself had changed a lot, more so since Sherlock’s … accident. How could he expect his friends to remain the same when he was a completely different person? He was broken, alone in his grieving world, not letting anyone in no matter how hard they tried or how much they stuck around for.

He knew the answer, it was simple and it hurt to even think about. Yes, he had changed. Yes, his friends had changed. The one thing that hadn’t changed was Sherlock. Sherlock was the one thing that was unchanging. He, even in his deathbed, remained in John’s mind constantly. So, yes, he had changed, the world had changed, life had changed but Sherlock hadn’t. He was sedentary. He was an unmovable stone. An anchored boat hitting waves coming from the oncoming storm.

Sherlock Holmes would always be Sherlock Holmes.

 

 


	4. The deerstalker has a cuppa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening with Mary turns into an emotional night for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sick at the moment. I apologize for any mistakes. If you've yet to see Sherlock Season Three Episode One: The Empty Hearse, you might wanna skip the section between the (**). It's not a big spoiler, it's just a little detail from the episode.

Mary had come over after work, her smile shinning upon John like a ray of sunshine. He expected the weight of the day would come crashing down on him as soon as he got home and yet, here he was, happily chatting with Mary about nothing at all. _Amazing,_ he thought, _I haven't felt this free since – since..._

"What's wrong, John? Did I forget to take the plastic again?" Mary asked, concerned dripping from her voice. Not receiving a response from him, she took that as a yes and began to apologise, her hands shaking in her lap as she looked away from John, her eyes on her plate of food. "I am sorry, I can make another one and I'll try not to do it again. It- I wasn't trying to do it the first time but-"

"Stop it. It isn't that," John stopped her, reaching over to take her hands in his. He hated when she went off in a stutter of phrases, hated that he was the one to cause her to become so agitated. "I just ... my mind strayed to the row with Sarah. I shouldn't have said what I said. Unprofessional, it was. I just couldn't –"

"Hey, hey, I get it. My people skills aren't the best in the world but I would've gone off on that clot too."

"Yes. Well." John looked down at their clasped hands. Hers looked so fragile compared to his, smooth skin and long elegant fingers just like – He shook his head, looking up at Mary with a smile, one she wouldn't be able to know was fake, it was his _I'm-not-an-idiot-thanks_ smile that he usually used on Sher- "How was your day?" he asked suddenly, "anything exciting?"

"I'm not very exciting, nothing happens to me," Mary said, reminding him of what he had told his doctor right before he had bumped into Mike Stamford. Right before his life had changed. _Right before that blasted, idiotic, egotistical maniac came into my –_ "Though there was thing one bloke who came in right after the lunch rush. He was a bit odd."

Letting go of her hands and turning to his food, John asked, "Odd? Odd how?"

"I didn't even see him come in. I was refilling a customer's cuppa and then I turn and there he is. Just sitting there, in _our_ table."

"Why is that odd?"

"Something about the way he sat down, so elegant and poise for someone wearing such rubbish clothes. I thought he was a bum just looking for a freebie but his shoes were polished and he has an expensive wristwatch, shinny. He made a show out of reading the menu, flipping it back and forth with a flick of his wrist but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at me, John," Mary said. John took a bite, following the story but not commenting. After all, she worked at a diner, people went there to eat and she was a waitress, someone who served said food. As if reading his mind, Mary continued, "He didn't order anything. Just sat there, staring. He scared me out but…"

"But what?"

"It wasn't a scared like when you're about to die – not that I would know anything about almost dying or anything – but safe."

"You felt scared _but_ safe? What?"

"Just something about him," she muttered, pushing her plate aside. She shook her head and continued, "He didn't stay long. Just ordered a glass of milk and said something about truths being lies. I turned and he was –"

"Gone," John finished, his body paralysed. Milk. Truths. Lies. Milk. Milk. Lies. Truth. His head snapped up, his throat becoming suddenly dry as he asked, "W-what did this man look like? He had polished shoes and a watch, what else?"

"What does it matter? He's probably some nutter that-"

"Please, just… indulge me. What did he look like?" Mary blinked, thinking. John's heart beat rapidly in his chest, his breathing accelerated for no reason. **Ah, but there is a reason, isn't there,** a voice, _his_ voice ** _,_** in his head supplied. **There is always a** **reason** _._ John knew how it might look to Mary but that didn't matter anymore. Not when there were more important things to –

"He was wearing a deer stalker."

His heart stopped. "W-What?"

"The man, he was wearing a deer stalker. You know those hats with the –"

"- Two flaps… yeah, I- I, um, I know." He clenched his jaw. No, this is too simple, too easy. It can't be.

Mary reached out for John. "Are you okay? You look a bit-"

"I need to go," John murmured softly, breathing heavily through his mouth. _In. Then Out, John. In then out._ "I need to go. I'm sorry. Just – Sorry."

(**)

His gravestone was pitch black, his name being the only thing engraved into the dark stone. He thought it'd been a little off but Sherlock was never really normal, now was he? The funeral had been months ago, half a year ago, and yet his thoughts were constantly flooded with new and exciting ways in which Sherlock survived the jump. He had faked it. Obviously. He just needed to prove it.

The Empty Hearse Club met once a week with new theories and possible sights of the mad detective. Phillip had been so wrong about the man that he felt the _need_ to make it up to him one way or another. Paving the way for his return was one way, keeping the public, the younger generation, informed about the man who had saved their lives for years, the man who wore a deer stalker hat because of a joke, the man with a billowing coat and head of curls, was real.

He was real – more real than anyone else Philip had ever met. He only regretted that he hadn't seen that earlier. He really had been a fool, no wonder Sherlock never wanted to be in the same room as him.

Phillip Anderson leaned down, placing a yellow rose on the gravestone of Sherlock Holmes, his hand tracing the smooth stone and the incredible name etched into it.

If – and _when_ – the man returned, he would get right on his knees (the words _'state of her knees'_ vibrated in his head) and beg for forgiveness. For now, all he could do was look and hope.

(**)

John heads to the only other home he has ever known: 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson opened the door with open arms, her eyes crinkling at the sides with cheer but also sadness. It had been a while since they'd spoken, enough time that he forgot what the inside of 221B looked like. Or maybe that was his trying to block off the memories that the place awoke.

She lead him to her flat, passing by the stairs and that railing that Sherlock had always, no matter how many times Mrs Hudson had insisted they had a coat rack for a reason, thrown his coat across as he headed up the stairs to their flat. John's fingers found their way to that spot, the smooth wood felt as smooth as any other wooden staircase he'd ever touched and yet, it wasn't like any other staircase. No, this one was different.

After a brief pause, John made his way to Mrs Hudson who was putting on the kettle for them. He sat down in the same chair that she had sat down on when those men had broken into their flat and –

"Mycroft came the other day," she said as she sat down, smoothing out her flower printed dress. "Came to collect some of Sherlock's things."

John gave a smile, his hands clasped in front of him. "How – How nice of him to finally care." He closed his eyes at the sound of his own voice. _You are not the only person who cared_ , he reminded himself.

"Is everything alright, dear?"

"Yes. No. Not really. No."

"Anything I can do to help?" She reached for him, placing her wrinkly hands on top of his. He grasped them, giving them a tight squeeze as he shook his head. She squeezed back, not convinced. "Are you sure? You don't look so good."

"Just – Can I – Can I spend a few minutes upstairs? I want to –"

"Take your time, dear. I'll make us some supper. I'll be right here if you need me."

* * *

John took a deep breath. He could do this. He could walk up those creaky stairs, turn right, walk up another landing, turn that doorknob and step inside. He could do this. Now if only his legs would get the message.

_The first step was the hardest, isn't that what they say? The first step is always the hardest but once that is… um, well, I'd imagine the next one is easier._

**Shoddy idiom. Move on.**

"Shut up!" John muttered to himself, shushing the voice in his head. A voice that belonged to the one person who couldn't be inside his head. Not now, not ever. "One step at a time, Watson."

He squared his shoulder, adopting a military stance and taking a deep breath. Hands at his side, slightly bent at the elbow and positioned at the seems of his trousers, feet spread about shoulder length and eyes straight ahead. Ready.

One step, two steps, three… until he made it up the first landing. He closed his eyes and stilled his shaking hands. He did two right turns, military style, and up the next flight, eyes on his target: the door that led to the flat.

Right, he thought, just four more steps. Just four more and -

**STOP.**

John did. He turned back downstairs, the clattering of the pots and pans in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the kettle whistling, the radio on.

**It's not time yet, John. Patience.**

He turned back, taking the steps two at a time. His heart raced in his ears, yelling at him to go back upstairs and get the closure he needed, for Mary's sake. But his body said no, following the voice in his head. He traced the smooth wood one last time before leaving, not bothering to call out to Mrs Hudson. He didn't need to see the sadness on her face… not again.

* * *

Doctor Thompson begins to worry the moment John comes into the room. She sees his shaking hands, rapidly blinking eyes, closed off body and immediately writes up a profile. Something is bothering him, something that has been bothering him for a long time but he hasn’t known it yet. Sherlock Holmes.

Everything John Watson did revolved on Sherlock Holmes, of course, she had discovered that after the fatal accident. Before meeting the brilliant detective, the veteran John Watson she knew, had been detached, yes, but not like this. Not so… emotionless. He had been sassy, forthright with some information, secretive about other but never so closed off as now.

The doctor smoothed out her dress, motioning for John to take a seat as she took hers. As always, she waited for him to begin speaking. She didn’t have to wait long today.

“Yesterday, I had a little episode,” he began. “I think I’ve gone crazy. I seriously think, yesterday was the day that I turned into a nutter. I belong in an asylum with all the other -“

“Tell me what happened, John,” she interrupted softly. “Start from the top.”

“I keep hearing his voice, Sherlock’s, in my head every time I try to do something. Whenever I try to move on with my life, he - it - mumbles another option. When I try to go back to my old life, he tells me it isn’t time yet.”

“When did this start?”

“Yesterday,” he replied. “I had a row at work and after dinner with Mary I bolted out the door to 221B -“

“How was dinner?”

“I-It was alright.”

“Yours or hers?”

“Mine. Sorry, what are you getting at?”

“Just trying to find a setting, what happened when you had dinner?”

“We talked about our days and she said - she said she had this tall, elegant man in her section order milk. Milk!”

“I don’t follow, John,” the doctor commented honestly, putting a brief note in her pad and setting it aside. She could take notes later, for now John needed her full attention. “Why is this odd and exciting to you?”

“I - I don’t know,” he opened his mouth as if to add something but snapped it shut and continued, “I went to 221B and saw Mrs Hudson.”

“How is she?”

“Coping. Lonely. Sad, very sad.”

“We all process pain our own way. The way you described her relationship with Mr Holmes was similar to that of a child and a parent or grandparent. It would be a good idea to reach out to her, it might provide some closure for the both of you.” Doctor Thompson sat forward, elbows on her knees, and added, “What ever happened next, whatever the voice in your head said, this is not a weakness. You made it into Baker Street, you walked inside, you stood where he once stood and you faced it head on. Whatever happened next, it isn’t relevant for this chapter in your life.”

“I couldn’t - I couldn’t go up the stairs.”

“One day, you will. Patience, John.”

He chuckled. “That’s what he - the voice said.”

“Perhaps, in this instance, it would be wise to listen to the voices in your head.”


	5. I care about you. A lot. Very Much, actually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a bad dream that sets the mood for his whole day

John’s dream revolved around Sherlock that night. Whilst the rest of London slept peacefully, their minds filled with happenings that would only be forgotten at the start of the day, John’s mind was restless, grieving and took form of a 6 foot tall man with curly hair with coattails that flew in the high winds high above on the roof of St. Bart’s.

Only this time, he didn’t actually see Sherlock. His mind constantly berated with nightmares of his (dead) best friend that, once he began to dream, he naturally assumed Sherlock would be in it. This time, not unlike many of his dreams, was not at St. Bart’s. Mary’s Café was the setting for this particular dream.

He walked, carefully avoiding the step; he opened the door to the café, pushing opening the door with one hand and the other grasping the doorframe. His eyes on the table in the back, the same one he had sat down at so many weeks ago. His dream-self was transported to their regular seats in the after time of a busy lunch rush. Mary was hovering next to the table; her hands grasped the coffee carafe as she spoke to the figure. She was blocking John’s view of the figure but he knew, god did he know, who it was. A deep laugh mixed with Mary’s, her hand reached for the arm on the table, giving it a small squeeze as the laughter stopped. His steps faltered as Mary moved out of the way, taking a step back and turning towards John, a smile on her face.

“John,” she called out, “look who’s here!”

“Sher-“

“Not. Quite.”

John let out a shaky breath as he sprung up from bed, his hands supporting the weight of his shaking body just barely. He couldn’t quite make out the man’s face but he was sure of one thing, it was not Sherlock Holmes. The whole thing felt like a horror movie with the face of the killer obscured by some bad lighting. An inch to the side and the face would have been clear. But now the face was even more obscure than whilst dreaming.

He closed his eyes, laying back down, determined to have a good nights rest despite the blaring migraine that he could feel beginning behind his eyes. At first, his eyes couldn’t rest, moving behind their lids rapidly, his mind replaying the earlier dream, analysing and coming up with nothing. Then, he counted sheep, trying, in vain, to push aside any and all thoughts. It took fourteen minutes to fall back asleep, approximately 14,000 sheep.

The next few hours were better off spent being awake, in retrospect.

* * *

_He was in danger, every cell in his body told him that. Even if the danger was unseen, John felt eyes from inside the very taxi he was riding. One look at the taxi driver who didn’t glance his way once, told him the danger was imaginary. Now, if only his body would relax._

_The text he had received regarding Mrs Hudson had been a fake, probably one of Sherlock’s Homeless having a good laugh under the command of a very bored consulting detective. No matter, Sherlock was going to get a piece of his mind as soon as John returned to Bart’s. The manner in which Sherlock dismissively handled the news of the ‘accident’ made sense now, at least._

_“Not a complete robot,” John murmured to himself as he looked out the window. “Should probably apologise...”_

_“What you say?” the cabbie asked, watching John through the rear-view mirror. John shook his head, apologising, lacking an explanation for his talking to himself. The cabbie raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting to John every few seconds, probably thinking about what a nutter he was, before slowing down as they reached the Bart’s parking lot._

_John paid the man, not meeting his eyes, and got out. Immediately whipping out his phone, he checked for any messages when a call came in. Sherlock. The next few seconds, the words exchanged in those moments, were a blur. John felt his breathing accelerate, the grip on his phone turning bone crushing as he listened, begged. In the back of his mind, he knew the outcome even before Sherlock took a step off that roof and made his decent downwards. John knew..._

_“It’s all a dream, you know?” A voice, Sherlock’s, came in through his phone. John’s hand, stiffly, raised the phone back to his ear and listened. “This – this place – is all in your dreams. You dream about me, constantly. I supposed I should feel special, honoured even but you also dream about bunnies and fishing regularly.”_

_“Sherlock...”_

_“Yes. That’s me, keep up, John, really.” The voice stopped wherein John took the opportunity to let out the breath he had taken when Sherlock had raised his arms to the side and taken the plunge. “This will be the last time you dream of me. You have a bright future ahead of you - that is if you believe in things like fate and destiny, which you should not. Everything is re –“_

_John blinked as the words hit home._

_“Why?” John managed to whisper._

_“The clues are pilling up, John.”_

_“What clues? What are you talking about, Sherlock?”_

_There was a long pause before a chuckle came from the other end of the line, the deep rumble of a laugh that could only belong to one person, the person who lay on the floor on the other side of the building in front of John._

_“You_ see _but you do not_ observe _, John. That is your folly.”_

* * *

John didn’t sleep the rest of the night, too scared to close his eyes and surrender to the darkness that was behind his eyelids. How long could he keep this up, he wondered before the rational part of his brain, the doctor side, reminded him that sleep was a necessity of life.

I _do not require sleep._

He shook his head, shaking the voice right of his thoughts as fast as it appeared. Doctor Thompson might have been right but at some point he had to admit, listening to the voice in his head that strangely resembled his dead best friend, was bordering on insane. Why would the doctor tell him to listen to the voice? What could he possibly get from –

_Closure. Resolution. Or she is simply –_

There was no way that he would ever be able to explain the voice to Mary. He could barely explain the voice to himself let alone another human being. A human being that he was currently dating and already had a meltdown in front of a few times. John liked her, really _liked_ Mary. Sure, the time had been short but… maybe the voice in his head was his past trying to drag him back, his old mentality trying to keep him in that sad, lonely life instead of the bright future he could see in front of him.

For now, 01:30 in the morning, John lay in bed and did nothing but breathe in and out.

* * *

When John arrived at work later that day, he arrived to yet another shitstorm. Patients, impatient and sniffling, were pressed in together like sardines in the relatively small confines of the waiting room, shoulder pressed up against each other and a look of discomfort on their red, snivelling faces.

He shook his head, so not prepared for the day that lay ahead of him. The remnants of his nightmare still lingered in his thoughts; the symbolism and mystery stranger were ... Well, a mystery.

He didn't know and, a small part of him, didn't want to know. Sherlock was in the past. He should move on, right? Nothing, no matter how many times he prayed and begged to the man's headstone would bring him back. That was reality. No matter how cruel.

But reality also brought a bright new hope. Mary Morstan. He had decided weeks ago that she was the one, or as close as he would get to the one. Those thought had not wavered even amidst all the emotional turmoil he had been through the last few days. Whilst Sherlock was his past, Mary was clearly his future. When one door opens...

_Keep telling yourself that._

He shook his head once more, leaving the voice behind as he smile at the receptionist and made his way to his office.

It'd been a long time since he had had his name adorn a door. DOCTOR JOHN H. WATSON the plaque read not quite on the centre of the door, which bothered him more than it should. His office was neat, or as neat as it could be with twenty-some patients coming in and out of it everyday.

On the right was his desk; a simple desktop computer sat on it, the screen all ready lit with messages and reminders. Next to the desktop was a stack of files, the patients for the day. Only five - 30 minute appointments each. Which meant the rest of the day would be spent ... He should stock up on tissues. He took of his jacket, hanging it and then taking a deep breath before jumping into his big day. And what a day it was going to be.

* * *

Around noon, lunchtime, John closed the door behind a mother and her small infant child who had come for a routine check up. Four hours and the day was looking gloomier and gloomier. The child had cried for the entire check up, the mother interfering, like all first time mothers do, and thus the thirty-minute appointment turned into an hour appointment.

Now, the patient he had after Ms Haggerty was escorted in wearing a rather annoyed look. He, Hans Jaeger, made a beeline for a seat, sitting down with a heavy sigh. John blinked and sat down too, waiting for the man to speak. He had come in for; John took a sneak at the file behind him, no reason. Either the secretary didn't ask or he didn't provide the info upon registering. The former could be true, there were a lot of patients today, but the latter was probably more likely given the glare John was receiving at the moment.

"What can I do for you?" John asked after a moment. The man only grunted in response. John waited for a pause but the man said nothing. He retrieved the file behind him, flipping through the page and half it contained. "You've listed no former doctors or past medical history nor any medical conditions. Is there anything you need? I'm a doctor, I've heard and seen everything. Trust me."

"Hmm," was the only reply.

"Are you in any pain?"

The man shook his head.

"Any discomfort at all?"

Another shake.

"Are you sick? Injured?"

Another.

"What brings you here today, then, Mr Jaeger?"

A pause.

“Mr Jaeger?” John blinked, watching the man for any reaction and getting none. Finally, annoyance won and John said, “If are here to waste my time, I am going to ask you to leave. Now.”

John watched as the man got up, straightened out his jacket and left. Having wasted his time, John took a deep breath before swivelling around in his chair and reaching for the intercom. His hand faltered just as his finger was about to touch the button. That had been odd. More than odd, actually, down right bizarre. But that was one got working at a clinic. He shrugged, pushing the intercom and announcing he was taking lunch.

The secretary did not reply for a long time, the sounds of the other room prominently coming through the speakerphone. John, annoyed and hungry, did not wait for a response longer than a minute, standing from behind his crowded desk with one push and grabbing his jacket from nearby. He put it on, checking the pockets for his wallet and keys - both present and accounted for. He took a quick glance at his phone, checking for messages from Mary and finding none.

He decided to give her a call; perhaps her voice will manage to soothe his tired mind. He dialled her number, ignoring the sound of ringing phone behind him, and exited his office. Through the lobby he goes, hand holding the dialling phone to his ear, passing right by the receptionist without a glance her way. She tried to call for him but he pointed to his phone, his eyes not on the woman as she points to a man in the waiting room, a file in her hand. He shrugged and called over his shoulder, "I'm on break."

He left without another word, pushing the doors with his bad shoulder and wincing when the pain began. He breathes in and out, his mind more on why Mary doesn't answer than the pain spreading down his arm.

"This is Mary. Leave me a message and I'll get back to ya when I can,” her voicemail said brightly.

John waited for the beep, taking a deep breath trying vainly to find words to come out of his mouth. Words that would make sense and that would explain his actions the last time they spoke.

"Mary, it's John. Listen, I'm calling because I feel horrible about what happened the last time we saw each other. The date. The date I ran out on. Um. Right. I want to explain. It's got to do with ... _Him_. Okay. Yeah," he licked his lips, hand running anxiously through his short hair. "Um, Thanks. I mean bye. Bye."

He hung up, rolling his eyes at himself for sounding like a complete loon. He pushed that out of his head, hoping that his day would brighten after the not-so-good morning he was having. His head pounded, his eyes burnt whenever he closed his eyes, his lids turning them into tiny suns whenever he closed them for long periods of time. His shoulder, _god_ his shoulder, ached. The only upside he could think as he walked to a nearby Tesco (maybe do a bit of mental shopping whilst he browsed) was that his leg no longer hurt. Now the pain erupted from the actual source of his injury.

_Doesn’t mean you haven’t got –_

“Shut. Up.” John muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m not listening to you. Not even if you are in my head.”

* * *

It took five minutes; walking briskly and mind clear, to get to the Tesco and inside the store. An employee welcomed him, asking him if he needed help. He did not, he replied with a thin smile, thanks and her interest was immediately drawn elsewhere. He walked through the aisles, not really looking at the items on the shelves.

John eventually found himself in front of the refrigerators, the light emanating from within them illuminate the milk pints. He stared at them, tracing the pints with his eyes without intending on buying anything. He stood there, feet a shoulder’s length apart, shoulder’s pulled back and hands at his back. He breathed in and out, concentrating on breathing and not Sherlock’s voice in his head.

Milk and Sherlock, not a connection he connection he would ever thought was possible. He stood there until his phone vibrated in his front pants pocket, his hand automatically reaching for it before his mind registered the vibration. Once the phone was in his hand, vibrating, he blinked and stepped back from the milk. He blinked again, looking down at his phone and seeing the words “MARY MORSTAN” on the screen in bold letters.

“Hullo?”

“John? I got your message.”

“Right. Um. Yes, do you want to have dinner?”

“So you can run out again? I think not.”

“I –“

“John, I don’t need to know everything that goes on in that thick head of yours but ... Sherlock is in the forefront of your mind, I get that, I do. But this is ... Am I important to you?”

“Yes, of course you are.”

“But I’ll never be as important as him, will I?”

“I –“ John licked his lips. “No.”

“And I would never expect the opposite. Can you see that I am willing to not be the most important, the most vital and your constant thought in your life? I don’t care, but I care about you. A lot. Very much, actually.”

She stopped, waiting for a response from him. John was too stunned, too shocked to do anything but blink and get a firm grip on his phone, knuckles turning white with force.

“Amazing...” he murmured. “You are. Amazing.”

“Dinner?”

“My place, 1900?”

“I will be there.”

They hung up and for the first time today, John felt a smile pull at his lips.

\--

 


End file.
